


A Winter's Ball

by BarbarianBeauty



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is in love, But he doesn't know that, Dancing, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Rococo France, You Thwart, You see a wile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 17:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19430410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbarianBeauty/pseuds/BarbarianBeauty
Summary: On a snowy night in 1791, The Palace of Versailles is holding a Masked Christmas Ball. In attendance are notable French Diplomats, Aristocracy, The royal family themselves, and guests of a...higher distinction, depending on who you ask.





	A Winter's Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, second fic!! I'm so happy with the feedback I've gotten on the first, and this has already made me want to write more. Many, Many thanks to my friend Alex, who gave me this idea in the first place. I've done a bit of research, though I admit, I have a soft, soft spot for Rococo period France.

You learn, when living through 6000 years of it, that history is horribly reductive. The winners write the books, so to speak, which means that, unless you were there, one would never be able to know the whole of the truth. However, lucky for you, dear reader, both the demon Crowley, and the angel Aziraphale, were both in attendance, for all 6000 years of human history. A period history particularly misrepresented just happens to be Rococo era, France. The tensions rise as the reign of terror begins, people are dying in the streets, begging for change, suffering...but the villain is often mischaracterized as well.

It's a snowy evening in December, 1791. In just a few years time, the rebellion will hit it's peak. But, for the moment, there is peace on earth, good will towards man, and all that. At the palace of Versailles, there is a ball occurring, a masked ball specifically, for the winter holidays. In gilded colors, and the finest silks, the regent mingle with the royalty. Tables are lined with only the most excellent of foods, most decadent of cakes, as satin gloved hands greedily pop chocolates from settings and champagne flutes from trays. There was a Christmas tree, trimmed with gemstones, silvers, and other precious metals in the right most corner, and wreathes above every door. Along the back most wall of the ballroom, there was an orchestra playing. Couples flooded the dance floor, gorgeous ladies in flowing dresses and large petticoats, and handsome men in overcoats and cravats, dancing with joined hands. Lovers were able to meet in secret, hidden behind extravagant masks, their romantic era hearts whispering to them that they could not have eternity together, then alas, they would at least have this night, this moment, in each others arms! Of course, more than half of those engaged in such acts were not as interested in their partner as they believed, they were more interested, instead, in being half of a star-crossed duo, forbidden to be together. There was nothing in the hall that did not bleed decadence, no expense spared.

However, there was one woman noticeably set apart from the dancing. She stood, with the softest and perhaps most wistful of smiles, looking upon the dancing crowd. Perhaps it was her dress being too cumbersome, her powdered wig too high, her heels too tight...or perhaps it was the man, clutching her hand in a vice. This woman was none other than Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna. Or as you may know her, Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. The man clutching her hand was none other than her husband, Louis-Auguste XVI, King of France. And despite all of the evidence that said she should have been, Marie was not a happy woman. To understand why, we have to look at both her past...and her future.

An Archduchess of Austria, Maria was married off at fourteen. Once she was married, the child was forced to give up any sort of German ancestry she might have had in the form of her titles, and names. She was stripped from her home, her country, her family, and had not even her native language to comfort her. That was her past, of course. In her present, she had been recently involved in an affair scandal, and her lover had been caught, crossing the border with many of her items of jewelry. Within just the past year, her husband, even with the knowledge that their country was in horrible, horrible debt and the people were suffering, had commissioned for her a tiara, laden with gems of all colors. Now, forget what you know about Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna, because in all likelihood, it was written after her death, in an effort to slander the Monarchy of France. Maria was a frugal woman, in actuality. When presented with this tiara, she had refused to wear it. Instead, she wore a hat, and sat for her royal portrait with a purple rose, instead, shoving it in the face of her husband of twenty-three years, that her heart belonged, and always would, to another. When it came to star-crossed duos, she was a model student. Also, it warrants noting, there is absolutely no validation to the notion that she said "Let them eat cake." After her death, there was an active movement by the French rebels to slander her name, in particular. Do not believe everything you read, especially when it is written over two hundred years prior. In a matter of months, she will be ousted from the palace, and soon after executed. Some believe her misfortune to come from the owning of a particular diamond, which later was divided, and in part was sent to the Romanov family of Russia...

But ah, yes. the ball.

As she gazed wistfully at the ballroom full of couples, someone else was doing some wisting of his own. A man who had slipped in after his name miraculously appeared on an invitation was the angel, Aziraphale. In baby blues, a silver overcoat, and a golden, handcrafted leather mask trimmed with white feathers, he stood and enjoyed the crowds. It was a shame that...he wasn't here. Who? Ah, no one important, he'd insist, while also prattling on about how meaningless it was, whether he was here or not, and that he truly didn't care one way or the other, and they weren't FRIENDS, of course, not at all-!

"Care for a dance?"

He huffed a bit. Despite being a bit advanced in age for some of the younger attendees of the party, Aziraphale was a handsome man. Quite handsome, in fact. Some of the attendees who were gossiping on the side, hands to ears and fans to mouths, had likened his features to those present in the Greek statues they had heard so much about...or...perhaps from the illuminated manuscripts of the bible they'd seen while studying abroad...yes, yes that had to be it! Silver hair, and soft appearance...he looked nearly like...oh, how silly this sounded, but like...an angel... And he'd also been asked to dance already, several times that evening. But angels do _not_ dance, thank you kindly, and he had decided he was not about to start now.

"No, thank you, I'm just- Crowley!" The angel took a surprised half step back at the sudden appearance of the man beside him. The man in question was unmistakable. He wore all black, with red accents along the hem of his coat, and quite shiny silver accent buckles on his shoes. His mask was...natural, if one might put it as such. It looked as though it had been carved from wood, and made strong, jagged lines across his cheeks, and down his chin on his right side. It was a far cry form the finely painted Venetian plaster of the other attendees, but...well, the tarnished silver color made the red hair that framed it _scream_ his arrival. A waft of spiced sweet perfume followed him, which nearly sent Aziraphale into a daze. Handsome was not an apt word to describe him. Perhaps...no words would quite do for describing the man before him. The demon, Crowley, was certainly doing some tempting, this night...though...maybe not in the way he had planned.

Or...perhaps _exactly_ in the way he had planned.

The only thing...different about him this evening was the absence of the dark colored lenses he usually used to cover his...unnaturally yellowed eyes. In it's place was a fine layer of black chiffon. It was fine enough for him to see through, but dark enough that all anyone would see was the eye holes of the mask. Not only did it add an extra level of mystery and allure to him, drawing people to attempt to discover what lay underneath, but it was quite practical, in his opinion. Nothing to worry about getting knocked off, with it being attached to his head and all. However, if Aziraphale looked close enough, and I mean _close,_ he'd be able to see the familiar vertical slits of pupils, scanning him up and down.

"A dance?" Crowley said again, this time extending a ruffle sleeved hand for the angel to take. It took a lot of Aziraphale's self restraint not to immediately plop his own, admittedly sweaty, hand into it. Aziraphale had been in love with this demon for ooh....a little over two hundred years now? Did he realize that yet? No. Not at all. But that didn't stop his reflexes from taking every opportunity to place himself in the sphere pertaining to the demon.

"Ohh...I really shouldn't, you know-" He looked around conspiratorially, which, in retrospect probably only brought more eyes too him " _Angels_ do not dance." Aziraphale gave an uncomfortable chuckle as he played nervously with his hands. Crowley didn't retract his hand, but a smirk pulled his lips to one side.

"Neither do demons. Not very well. First time for everything, right?" A little bit more of Aziraphale's resolve chipped away, both at the sight of his smirk, and the unwavering hand.

"...Well, I'd rather not...repeat the actions of a certain Gilber du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, I'm afraid. He was laughed off the dance floor by the queen herself...! Not to mention, the band is in the middle of a song!" In spite of hismself...Aziraphale found his hand being held in the slightly larger, bonier one of his....companion.

There was a barely audible snapping noise from behind Crowley's back, and suddenly, the orchestra found the piece they were playing...a number of measures permanently shorter. The dancers stopped as the music abruptly drew to a close, and awkwardly clapped in thanks. The wave of dancers left the floor, and the next tide rolled in, among it: Crowley and Aziraphale. They turned to face one another, the two of them searching each other's faces in the pregnant pause before the band finally began to play. It was very lucky that Aziraphale did not need to breathe, or else he would have found himself in need of one of the fainting couches set conveniently against the left wall, for just such a purpose. And the dance began.

It was a sweet, soft dance. And Aziraphale found himself being led, rather than leading, not that he was necessarily complaining. His hand found itself perched on Crowley's shoulder, and the other very gently laid atop the one he had taken only moment's earlier. If he thought about it, he could feel the gentle pressure of Crowley's left hand on his waist. He didn't think about it.

"So," Crowley began, leaning into Aziraphale's ear, though his eyes were...elsewhere. On the queen, in fact... "What do you make of her?" He asked, glancing back momentarily as they turned.

"Ah...oh, you mean...her highness? Well, she's a nice woman I'd say, quite-"

"No, I mean...of where she'd headed." Ah. So...that was what he was here to discuss, was it?

"W-well I mean...she's more informed than you would guess!" Aziraphale defended. "Really, she's...quite concerned with the state of things. But they...keep information from her, you see. I imagine...if she truly knew the state of things...she'd have staged her own coup...years ago."

"Mmh." Crowley hummed, sagely. "Well, to everyone outside those windows," He paused to nod to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out to the gardens. "Sees her as the _picture_ of sin. Greedy, lustful, slothful, gluttonous...absolutely horrible."

"Well...image certainly is not everything is it? What does it matter what they think of her?" Aziraphale glanced to her, himself. "What matters is that she is a good person in her own right. She is certainly a strong woman! I truly doubt she'd still be here if she wasn't."

"But strength doesn't matter when rebels are kicking down your door and dragging you away," Crowley reminded, voice ever so even, spilling from his lips in silken syllables "what matters is how they see you. And they see her as...everything wrong with their government, in this moment. At any minute, they could just...kick down a door-"

"-you wouldn't, her children are here-"

"I don't have to, Angel." His voice was more stern now. Nearly reprimanding. "They're doing it of their own accord, at this point."

Honestly. Aziraphale of all beings, earthly or otherwise, should know that he would _never_ hurt a child.

"Ah...I see."

Silence passed between them for a few moments.

"Have..." Aziraphale started again "You received any orders on the matter, yet?"

"No," Said Crowley. "I imagine hell is taking their sweet, sweet time with this one...trying to figure out if it's worse to aid the royalty, who will cause people to suffer, but won't actively do anything...or the revolution, who will kill, and kill, and kill...in the name of...freedom. Real politics with those..."

Aziraphale had been struggling with the same issue. He considered...whispering into Her Majesty's ear all that was happening in the country...and all that they were suffering through...and...what may happen, should she not act. But...of course, he was no Agnes Nutter. No prophecies would come from his lips, only guesses, based on thousands of years of experience. Besides, he'd been on trial for witchcraft once before, and he'd prefer not to end up there again by another horrible series of misunderstandings.

The next few moments were spent in a comfortable silence between the two...Aziraphale found himself...longing to make this last. The contact, the conversation...he wasn't sure which, but something in him as begging for it not to end.

Ah, there were those extra measures from the first song.

After another few minutes of dancing, the song drew to a finish. The leads of the dance bowed to their partners, and kissed their hands. Crowley was certainly no exception. He swept himself forward in front of the Angel with only the deepest of reverence, and placed the softest of kisses upon Aziraphale's palm... "When the revolution does come," he said "try not to get yourself in too much trouble, hm? Stay in London." He patted the angel's hand, and swept past him without another word. 

The Ethereal being struggled for make something come from his lips, but...nothing did. Instead, he watched Crowley saunter towards Marie Antoinette, and relocated himself to the refreshments table, where he took to tasting anything that looked even mildly appetizing, as a method for getting his mind off of what had just happened. He glanced, despite himself over to where Crowley was speaking with the Queen. She seemed all too receptive to whatever it what he was saying; filth, no doubt...

Crowley met his gaze for only a moment, before Aziraphale snapped his head away. Well, fine. What was done, was done.

\-----

In the end, neither of them had intervened.

The reign of terror had neither Heavenly, nor Hellish. It was, in fact, completely and utterly Human.

Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna was excecuted in 1793, just before her 38th birthday. She was paraded through the streets in an open cart, forced to change in front of the prison guards, and have her head sheered. She ignored the priest assigned to hear her final confession. Her final words were, translated, "I am sorry, sir, I did not mean to put it there." In reference to her stepping on her executioner's foot only moments before she was to be beheaded. 

Aziraphale did _not_ stay in London. And _did_ get himself in too much trouble, but...that's a story you already know.

And now, many, many years later, those two masks are hung with care on either side of the door which exited A.Z. Fell and CO, Booksellers.

Aziraphale finds him...lovingly gazing at them quite often. Though the paint has faded, the chiffon is gone, and the top part of Crowley's chipped during the 20's, they are still in wonderfully good condition, considering. He's had multiple offers on them, but, every time, he smiles that sweet, knowing smile and apologizes, saying "I'm so sorry, but...I'm afraid I'm a bit too attached to give those up."

And attached he was. 'Yes, quite attached.' He thought, as he glanced at Crowley's reclining form in the seat beside him.

He gently caught the demon's hand, and pressed a kiss to his palm.

Quite attached.


End file.
